Kitten in the Woods
By Rod DiGruttolo
On a warm sunny day in early April, Skeets Johnson and Stan Murphy took a shortcut through Beneva woods – they followed Tucker Creek. The creek cut straight through the woods and spilled into a drainage ditch beside the railroad tracks. The temperature hovered in the mid-eighties and the walk was pleasant, decidedly cooler than walking along sun-baked sidewalks. The route shortened their trip by nearly a mile, and since they hadn’t taken that path in a while it gave them a chance to do a little exploring.
The creek was little more than a trickle, maybe a yard across at its widest point and not more than a foot deep anywhere. But it flowed steadily and over time had dug a gully in the sandy soil. The water babbled over hardpan and sandstone that lay at the bottom of the creek bed. The banks of the gulley were nearly six feet high and steep, almost vertical. A web of grasses and vines held the dark loam in place. Layers of exposed roots and outcroppings of rock formed natural ladders at intervals along the creek bank. The boys sought out such a stairway and climbed down into the creek bed.
For twelve-year-old boys not five feet tall, walking in the creek bed was akin to strolling down an endless hallway. Overhead, a canopy of tree branches draped in wispy Spanish moss muted the sunlight that angled toward the forest floor. Many of the trees were clad in creeping vines and were sprouting new foliage.
About halfway along their path, the weathered trunk of a fallen tree spanned the creek. The trunk had lost all of its bark and was nearly white from exposure to the elements. The boys had crossed the creek using the trunk as a footbridge many times but today they passed under the gnarled white span.
A forest is not quiet, chirping birds, humming insects, and branches that rustle in the breezes create a myriad of subtle sounds. The boys had moved on a few yards when they heard a sound that was not in harmony with this woodland symphony.
A plaintive cry seemed to emanate from the base of the old tree trunk. The gentle cry that rode the still air sounded like a kitten mewing. The boys stopped. Frozen in place, they waited a few seconds and listened – it mewed again.
Stan said, “There’s a kitten up on the bank. Bet it’s lost.”
Having lived in the area most of his life, Skeets knew the woods and the creatures in it. He knew, a kitten in these woods was probably wild and its mama wouldn’t take kindly to someone interfering with it. He said, “Stan, if there’s a kitten out here, its mama ain’t far away. She probably lives in these woods. There’s a bunch of wild cats around and they’re flat-out mean. You don’t wanna’ mess with’em.”
“I’m gonna find it.” Stan said, as he scrabbled up the bank. Leaves, sand, and bits of twigs showered into the gulley behind him.
“Be careful Stan, wild cats are mean.” Skeets warned.
But Stan climbed atop the log and began searching for the kitten. It cried again. “There he is.” Stan hollered. He pointed toward a hollow space at the base of the old tree’s roots, a few inches beyond his reach. A tiny feline peered from the dark hole. Its plaintive cry sounded louder than before.
Skeets looked to where Stan’s finger pointed. A beam of bright sunlight streamed through the trees and reflected off a patch of white sand in front of the burrow. Skeets squinted against the glare, held his hand toward the sun to create some shade, and moved closer. The kitten was young, its fluffy fur invited petting. It pranced at the den’s entrance and seemed healthy enough. Skeets drew closer. A spattering of spots patterned the kitten’s fur and it had a very short tail – just a short stub that stuck almost straight up. Skeets recoiled. He knew he was not looking at a kitten. That was a baby bobcat!
“Get outta here quick!” he yelled.
Stan looked puzzled, “Why?”
Skeets turned and was about to run when he spotted the mama bobcat. She was in the creek bed on the other side of the tree, about thirty feet away and crouched as if ready to pounce. Her fur bristled.
Skeets eased away from the den. With each step he prayed he wouldn’t stumble or, even worse, fall down. He could not take his eyes off the snarling cat. She was the biggest bobcat he’d ever seen. “Stan, back away slowly. Don’t move fast, but move now. The kitten’s mama is just the other side of the log,” he said, using a loud stage whisper.
Stan raised his head and peered down into the creek bed. He saw the bobcat. Since Stan was from New York City, Brooklyn to be exact, he had never seen a bobcat. What he saw was a large spotted cat with long, sharp teeth. When Stan moved, the bobcat became aware of him for the first time and his presence drew her attention away from Skeets.
Skeets knew he couldn’t outrun the cat, but was willing to give it a good try now that he had the chance. He turned and sprinted down the creek shouting over his shoulder, “Run Stan run!”
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There was little water in the creek and good footing as far as Skeets could see. Stan also bolted from his position. His foot sent a hail of twigs, sand, and leaves over the edge of the creek-bank. The rubble rained down on the mama cat and she leaped aside to avoid the flying debris.
The cat was confused for an instant. She glanced toward Skeets. He was running hard and at least twenty yards away. She spun after Stan, who in that instant was disappearing into the trees. She bounded to the top of the bank with one fluid motion and took a quick leap in Stan’s direction. Fortunately for Stan, her cub mewed just then. Mama skidded to a stop and turned toward the den. Her maternal instincts ended her pursuit of the intruders and demanded she check on her young.
Skeets glanced over his shoulder and saw she no longer gave chase. He slowed, but continued on for another twenty yards before he turned to watch the cat. He felt he was a safe distance away from the den and the mama.
Mama patrolled the area above the den for a few seconds. Then, satisfied that the intruders were gone, she leaped to the narrow ledge in front of the cave. She nuzzled the vocal youngster and a second cub stumbled from the darkness. The new arrival pounced on its sibling. Under mama’s watchful eye, the kittens played in the little patch of sunlight while she stood guard. She kept a wary eye on Skeets.
Skeets watched the cats for a short while and then moved on. When he arrived at the railroad tracks there was no sign of Stan. He waited a few minutes, shouted Stan’s name four or five times, but received no answer. Skeets was pretty sure Stan was okay, but he wanted to make certain. He set out toward Stan’s home. When he got to the neighborhood he saw a group of boys hurrying toward the woods, Stan was in the lead.
Skeets shouted, “Halloo.”
The boys heard Skeets and ran to meet him.
“I thought the Leopard got you!” a breathless Stan exclaimed.
“Leopard? Wha…” Skeets was puzzled at how someone could mistake a bobcat for a leopard. He thought about it and visualized the scene in his head. Spots, the cat had spots. Skeets smiled as he realized how Stan might mistake the bobcat for a leopard.
Skeets grinned at Stan. “Stan, that was no Leopard. It was a bobcat and she was protecting her young. As soon as we got away from them, she stopped chasing us.”
One of the boys asked, “Was she a big-un?” His eyes were wide and he anticipated a detailed answer.
Skeets was set to oblige. He took a deep breath and glanced about as if he were about to divulge something for their ears only. He spread his arms wide, demonstrating the size of the cat, and began, “Biggest I ever saw. Why, she wa...”
“I ain’t never seen no bobcat that big before.” Stan piped up, interrupting Skeets.
The boys turned their eyes on Stan. Their mouths agape, they stared at him in disbelief. That he would interrupt such a tale was unthinkable.
Skeets couldn’t help it – he sniggered. His snigger turned into a chuckle and the rest of the boys joined in. Within a second all of them were laughing uproariously. All except Stan.
Stan looked puzzled, he knew they were laughing at him but couldn’t see the humor in what he’d said. He started to get angry.
Skeets saw Stan’s face turning red and stopped laughing long enough to ask, “Stan, do they have bobcats – or leopards – in New York City?”
Stan grinned sheepishly and said, “No, and they ain’t got no snakes neither.” He paused, his grin grew wider, and he said, “But you ain’t never seen rats…”
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Rod lives in Sarasota, Florida with his wife Betsy. A father, step-father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. He grew up on the West-Coast of Florida. Living in perpetual summer adjacent to beaches and warm, clear water has to be as close to an ideal childhood that any boy could ask for. Rod was an auto-mechanic for many years and served a stint of about eight years in the role of a law enforcement officer. Rod enjoyes writing stories based on life experiences, though most are embellished with a story-teller's bent to make them seem even more fun, exciting, or scary than they really are. |
